Reef Dance Read online

As a man of action I was failing badly. I needed a plan, but all that was forthcoming was a bellyful of fear and the urge to take a whiz. A cabinet clicked in the kitchen before I could think of anything. He was in there.

  I looked for a weapon and found one in the form of a mahogany plaque—a “secret Santa” Christmas gift to me from Foley’s clerk a few years back—upon which were mounted three brass weather gauges that measured temperature, humidity and barometric pressure. When I hoisted it off the wall my spirits sank at how light the thing was, for the mahogany was nothing more than particle board with a dark coat of stain. But the edges were trimmed with shiny brass fittings. It would have to do.

  Another minute ticked by in total silence. I slid along the dining room wall toward the kitchen, my palms greasy with sweat as I death-gripped the cheap little plaque. I was two feet from the kitchen doorframe, close enough to reach out and touch the white wall-phone when it rang with an awesome clatter.

  Two rings, and not another sound in the kitchen. A shame-filled dialogue was unfolding in my head—man of action, my ass, you chickenshit . . . that sort of thing. It was time.

  I whirled past the phone to face my opponent. Nothing—that is, nothing but the usual scene: shining white tiles, a frying pan I’d left on the stove this morning in a rush to get out the door on time, chrome appliances crowding the countertops. A third ring echoed off the walls as I noticed the door to a utility closet cracked open, about six inches. The click I’d heard from the dining room was a match. He was hiding inside, among the mops and brooms and spare light bulbs. I raised the plaque to strike a swift downward blow and jerked the door open, and as I did, I saw a bolt of something black rush at my thigh and felt my flesh being punctured in a dozen places.

  Wincing, I swung blindly where I thought his head might be, but the blow merely clattered across a mop handle and clanged off the water heater, splintering the particle board in my hand and sending a shattering vibration up and down my arm. I looked down and saw the cat, a big, fat long-haired old Siamese named Smoky who lived a few doors down, its claws still buried in my leg. My cat burglar. I dropped the clock, and as I did, the phone continued to blast. The kitchen door that opens on the back patio was open just enough for Smoky to have slipped in. I’d left for work ten minutes late this morning, maybe in too much of a hurry to have locked up.

  As I picked up the receiver I heard a car engine starting in the alleyway. “J.? Oh good, you’re home.” It was my girlfriend, Phoebe Davenport.

  I was thinking about the white delivery van blocking the garage, the flash of a figure I’d seen through the front window, bigger than a fluffy Siamese by any measure. Big enough to drive a van, and maybe smart enough to work a door-lock open.

  “Pheebs, where are you? Can I call you right back? I gotta—”

  “L.A.X. I know, I’m home early, and no you can’t call me back, I have something to say that can’t wait.”

  I could hear the van’s tranny clicking into gear, the tires on loose gravel behind my house. “Pheebs, if you could just hold the phone a minute.”

  “No, I cannot hold the phone!” she said.

  Christ, I thought, if I can break loose for ten seconds I’ll at least get a license plate number. “Pheebs, please, just—”

  “I’m breaking up with you, J.,” she said. The van pulled out, its engine revving down the alleyway as I stood dumbly holding the phone, staring at Smoky’s luxuriant tail. A long silence followed. “J., are you there?”

  I felt my insides tightening and wished I possessed the sack to be a true man of action and just hang up before she read the laundry list of reasons we would never make it as a couple: my emotional unavailability, a certain secretiveness about my past, the void of family history that was downplayed at every turn but apparent just the same. Here it comes again. The tiresome part was that I’d heard the same list recited enough times by former girlfriends, I could have done the talking for Phoebe.

  “I’m here,” I said, leaning on the counter. “I’m here.”

  By the time I got off the phone the van was long gone, and Phoebe was on her way out. But I still clung to the hope that I had a sliver of a chance with her, and that chance was tonight. She had dumped me about six hours ahead of schedule, for tonight I was to be her date at a dinner in honor of her father, William Davenport, for his fundraising efforts on behalf of a children’s hospital. I’d rented the tux, I reminded her—which was a total lie—and besides, she’d need a date and I had no hard feelings, really. The least she could do was say good-bye to me properly, in person. Yes, she said. Phoebe agreed that she owed me that much and thanked me for taking the news so well. I’d see her at seven.

  I tried to picture Phoebe’s father attending a social event, sipping a drink, happily unwinding with friends. The images didn’t come. I saw William Davenport as a shark who never stops swimming, a snake with no eyelids. Unwinding was not in his repertoire. I knew the man disliked me for some unspoken reason, as well. I checked the time: 4:55. In a mere two hours Daddy Davenport and I would be exchanging false pleasantries over paté and crackers, smiling through clenched teeth as I did my damnedest to change Phoebe’s mind, the scene sliding from the merely hopeless to the macabre. But I was going, and I needed some fortification—and a tuxedo—to bring this one off.

  I spent about three minutes in the tux shop being fitted with a jacket that felt like an open parachute on my back and taking the pants on faith. What a blunder. When I got them home, the pants fit as if they’d been tailored for a rodeo clown. My first impression with the well-heeled Davenport crowd was sure to be memorable.

  I blinked and visualized the polished dance floor, the chandeliers, the glittering swirl of Beautiful People waltzing with austere grace. Off in a dark corner, yes, that’s me, hunched over and cursing my sagging drawers, hiking a fist full of ill-fitting fabric up my ass with the same bold yank I’d seen the pink-curler gawker use at court this morning. I remembered the sage words once spoken to me by a well-meaning law school professor: a good lawyer learns something from every client. I suspected the seat-of-the-pants ass-grab was not what he had in mind.

  A few hours later I eased off the northbound 101, took a left on Fourth Street, and sailed over the bridge toward the glass high-rises of downtown L.A. The sun was the color of ripe peaches as it sank into a dusty, smog-tinged haze. A cloudless sky arced high above the tallest buildings, reflecting the heavens in a flawless, Hollywood-backdrop dome of airbrushed electric blue. I was seriously late.

  I motored past dank Skid Row beer joints and blocks of sooty, urine-stained buildings with storefronts boasting names like Mac’s Mega Burger, Try Us! Discount Stereo, and La Bonita Fashion. Darkness was gaining, and the sidewalks on some of the side streets were already cluttered with cardboard shelters. A scant few blocks ahead lay another world, the Biltmore Hotel looming over Pershing Square like a stately antique, its patterned brick soaring above a phalanx of graceful arches and columns in an eloquent tribute to old money and faded West Coast elegance.

  The Biltmore lobby was nearly empty but for a trio of Asian businessmen in silk suits. Near the front desk stood a statuesque bellman, his brow rumpled in an expression of supreme boredom.

  I unfolded my invitation and skimmed the gold-lettered print for details. “Which way is the Tiffany Room?” I asked the bellman.

  He saw the invitation, then grinned as if he knew in advance how many interminably dull speeches were on tap tonight. “On your right, all the way down the hall, then left.”

  There would be speeches, all right, glowing tributes, good-natured jibes, witty asides, charming anecdotes galore. Patron William P. Davenport. You can’t help but love a guy with so much money he needs to give it away to feel good about himself, even when he’s a controlling prick. But I didn’t care. I wanted one more shot with his only child, Phoebe.

  I found the Tiffany Room at just after eight. With any luck, the cocktail session was just breaking up by now, the guests were ferrying their vodk
a martinis and flutes of Chardonnay over to their assigned tables, and my entry would go unnoticed. I inhaled deeply, opened the ballroom door, and sauntered in.

  “Sir, please!” A firm hand clamped down on my shoulder. A swarthy waiter fought for balance beneath a colossal tray of rolls and tossed salads. In my effort to radiate maximum aplomb I’d strolled headlong into the man’s path without looking.

  “Sorry, friend,” I said. It felt like the hundredth time today that a person shot me the stink-eye when the waiter took his turn.

  I surveyed the long, rectangular room. Every last guest was seated at one of thirty or so round banquet tables, half of them presently studying this new arrival in the floppy tux.

  Phoebe stood at the head table until she had my attention. She wore a sleek black halter dress, silk with a criss-crossed pattern of crystal beading; the dress clung to her svelte shape like a mermaid’s tail. Her bare shoulders peeked out teasingly from beneath the dense, honey-blond waves of hair flowing down her back.

  “A tuxedo, J.?” Phoebe said when she saw me. “You were serious.”

  “Only the best for the beloved honoree,” I said. “You don’t like it?” I privately kicked myself for asking such a set-up of a question.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you came.” Her eyes traced the lumpy line of my jacket.

  I could feel her disappointment. “Okay, I know. Don’t even say it.”

  She shook me off. “You’re even good-looking in a generic tux, J.”

  Kind words, but good-looking is not how I would choose to describe myself. I’m tall—about six-two—and on the solid side. Like most surfers, my legs appear to be a touch skinny beneath a top-heavy chest and arms built up from years of paddling a surfboard through advancing lines of soup. My olive skin and brown eyes I took from my mother, and my almond, sun-streaked hair from my dad. My nose is straight, but thick in the middle, like a street fighter’s (I broke it a few years back when I took a fallen rider’s loose board square in the face on a crowded day at the pier).

  “You nearly missed dinner,” she said.

  I felt ill at ease. Perhaps a touch of levity would loosen things up. I opened my jacket and tugged at my cummerbund until the heads of three large safety pins protruded from the front of my pants. “The guy who rented me these pajamas told me don’t worry, the waist is adjustable. Don’t let me doze off tonight, Pheebs. I could slip beneath the belt-line and suffocate.”

  She laughed for half a second, then said, “A man should have his own formal wear.”

  It was the kind of subtle put-down I’d heard many times before from Phoebe, a reminder that we were from different worlds. And yet, because I had nothing to lose I felt I could afford to let it slide.

  My social indifference had become a source of strange wonder to Phoebe. She seemed to marvel at my lack of enthusiasm for the accouterments of the yuppie class, my uncanny ability to wear the wrong clothes at the wrong time, my well-tempered disdain for authority. I suppose I’d supplied a certain entertainment value to her life just by being myself.

  “Loan me a few bobby pins,” I said, “and we’ll dance later.”

  This time she truly laughed. I suspected the baggy-ass fit was just fine with Phoebe.

  My eyes passed over the other guests at our table: distinguished older couples picking through their salads like cautious birds, the women dripping in diamonds and gold jewelry, the men in monogrammed shirts and seamless black jackets. No tuxedos.

  Phoebe recognized my dismay. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. Just then a waiter in a tux very similar to my rental—but better fitting by a mile—squeezed behind us with a pitcher of ice water. I watched him circulate as he poured, wondering whether I should just go and help out in the kitchen.

  The ballroom seemed to shrink around me. I was bombing with a girl who’d dumped me a few hours earlier. I was out of my depth with her, and moments like this only proved the point more emphatically. “Pheebs,” I said, “how about a quick one at the bar? I need a real drink.”

  But Phoebe didn’t hear me. She had turned to greet a society matron seated at the next table, a woman who was suddenly laughing her ass off at something. A coincidence, I hoped.

  The salad before me held no appeal. My appetite had disappeared. Soon I was playing with my silver, drawing figure-eights with my knife as I studied the guest of honor from across the table. William Paul Davenport, attorney at law, senior partner at Davenport, Hobbs & Frank, one of L.A.’s most prestigious firms. Major Republican party booster, president of the California Lawyer Reform Committee (don’t ask), and, if the tax benefits are aligned like a major constellation across his accountant’s desk blotter, philanthropist to boot. His iron jaw was working a sirloin-kabob appetizer with the zest a starving Doberman might have brought to the task. A fat priest with a tan had leaned over behind his chair and was apparently telling a riotously funny story. As they laughed together, Big Bill looked up and saw me. I smiled and raised my hand to wave, but he turned to the priest before I could complete the gesture.

  I thought of the little get-acquainted outing Phoebe had instigated last month, our fateful rendezvous on the golf links at Bill’s club for a round of eighteen. We were supposed to be a foursome, but the other two guys—lawyers from his firm—were called away by last-minute business, leaving the two of us alone and, for the most part, deathly silent. I remembered the way Davenport had looked right through me at the green on ten, not even a trace of good humor on that granite face when I regaled him with a tale about my dad and his best friend, Grog Baker, and a Tijuana bullfight they’d once interrupted. His was a face that, in its own restrained, establishment way, still managed to say “you’re just a punk,” with enviable clarity. I surmised that he didn’t recognize what I did for a living as “real law,” and that he thought I was joking when I told him how much I derived from surfing and a life spent in contemplation of the ocean’s moods. He never came out and told me I wasn’t worthy of Phoebe, but it was there on his face, a smugness that had left me speechless, twisting the grip of my three iron until my palms burned a florid pink.

  A jazz combo was set up in the far corner of the room. The leader, a tall black man in dark shades and a suit the color of scrambled eggs, stepped forward and began a smoky run on his saxophone.

  “I don’t know, Pheebs,” I said. “I don’t think your father appreciates my being here.”

  Phoebe paused to consider my charge. “He just thinks you’re not my type, which isn’t as bad as it sounds. To him, no man is good enough for me.”

  Her hair fell over her eyes, and she threw her head back lightly to clear her vision. I wanted to stroke away her silken tresses with my finger and kiss her gently on the nose, but we were still technically broken up, and with the Big Man at point blank range, I thought better of it.

  “He also thinks you’ve got one thing on your mind,” she said.

  Davenport had a lot of sack to say that, considering that Pheebs and I have never slept together. We’d met at the wedding of a dependency court judge I’d worked for before Foley, Arthur Hodges. By an uncommon stroke of luck that day, my name was left off the seating assignment, and since I’d come alone, the wedding organizer quickly placed me in the only single seat remaining, next to Phoebe and her father. She wore a velvety, blue floral dress with a broad-brimmed hat and delicate white gloves, and I was immediately stricken by her quiet charm and refinement, her shy beauty. We spoke tentatively through dinner. I was nervous and strained in my attempts at conversation, not my usual self, and although she’d agreed to dance with me twice, I could feel my presence with her fading. A long, awkward silence fell upon our table like an invisible plague, and I resolved to save myself any further embarrassment by bailing out as soon as the cake-cutting ceremony was done.

  But then, by a second intervention of blind luck, I suppose, Phoebe asked about my family. Breaking my usual silence, I allowed her the small discovery that I, too, was an only child. S
he spoke of losing her mother to a swift and sudden cancer the month before, and was touched by my understanding of her sense of loss. Of course, I knew all about losing a loved one suddenly, but didn’t let on—didn’t have to, as Phoebe was so wrapped up in her mother’s story that day. The reception ended, but the two of us segued to the hotel bar and carried on over coffee. I drove her home near midnight.

  Four months of sporadic dating and long-distance calls followed. Phoebe’s commercial acting and modeling schedule kept her away a lot, and we seemed an ill fit at times, disagreeing about everything from pop music to politics, uneasy with our disparate backgrounds and reluctant to announce ourselves as a couple to our respective friends. But she continued to grieve her mother’s passing and I became her confidante. In truth, the support I gave her was little more than the assurance one drunk offers another when sharing a bottle: better to be miserable together than alone. But we never shared a bed together; between Phoebe’s long patches of sadness, her constant travel and her residence in the Davenport manse, with old Iron Jaw right across the hall from her bedroom, the opportunity had never really arisen.

  Yet here I was, tagged by a protective father as a lad just primed to get primal. But Bill Davenport didn’t know me or my problems. I’d been alone too long to know what to do with myself. To make matters worse, I’d fallen into a pattern of chasing women who were either just out of reach or were so needy themselves that they didn’t mind the distance I kept. Phoebe fit neatly into the former category, and she had a point about my emotional unavailability. She really didn’t know anything about what went on inside my head.

  The jazzmen heated up with a driving Latin number. “I want you to talk to Daddy,” Phoebe told me before floating away from our table to circulate. She moved with a slenderness and grace so sweet to behold that I felt pained to watch, and a hollow ache arose in my throat.

  Perhaps this was a final invitation from Phoebe. If I was going to make it with her I had to try again with Daddy. Five minutes later, when the fat priest moved on, I slid into the empty chair next to Bill Davenport. We said our hellos and chit-chatted for one brief, effortless moment. Then somehow, the conversation turned ugly.